Last Respects
by JillyW
Summary: A post ‘Sign From Above’ vignette, Jesse-focused.


Notes: No idea where this came from, but have to thank Nickelback for their Silver Side Up album which has provided such stimulating listening for the past few months, as well as the use of their lyrics.  
  
Thanks as ever to Chya for her continual and muchly appreciated encouragement.  
  
Spoilers: Nothing specific, though obviously relates to Sign From Above  
  
Disclaimers: Sadly, none of the Mutant X team belong to me. I've just borrowed them briefly from their owners and promise to put them back exactly (well, almost, particularly in Jesse's case!) as I found them. The lyrics belong to Chad Kroeger of Nickelback. No profit is being made from these stories and I don't have anything worth suing for...  
LAST RESPECTS  
  
By JillyW  
  
****  
  
I paid my last respects this morning on an early grave  
  
Already said goodbye... nothin' left to say  
  
A tiny church, a tiny town and not a tear was spent  
  
Not how I wanted it... I'm hating all of this  
  
'Woke Up This Morning', Nickelback  
  
****  
  
He stands alone.  
  
A young man, dressed in the black that suits him so well, head bowed so that the early morning sunshine gleams faintly on the gold in his dark blonde hair, creating a halo-like effect.  
  
But he's no angel, no celestial being, though he fights on the side of right. He's flesh and blood and something more. Something he shares with most of those closest to him. Something he shared with me.  
  
His normally clear blue eyes are a sombre gray despite the sunlight, full of conflicting but still negative emotions - anger, sorrow, regret, self- recrimination. But he sheds no tears.  
  
I'm not sure why he's come here today. He's probably not sure himself, though that would be unusual for him. He thinks too much, something he learnt from childhood when to speak or act out of turn meant trouble. I used to tease him about it, threatening to teach him spontaneity if it was the last thing I did.  
  
Maybe it was.  
  
We talked a lot about that - about childhood. His and mine. About growing up, learning to be different without showing it, trying to fit in without losing the essence of who we were becoming. I was lucky - I got out early, found myself a place where I could just be me, but it took him much longer. And it shows in his constant pursuit of perfection in everything he does, in the way he comes down hard on himself when he gets it wrong.  
  
We talked about a lot of things, often late into the night. About life and hope and future. All the things he still has. All the things he's chosen to champion others' rights to. I know he blames himself, though, that he couldn't guarantee them for me, that he wasn't there when it happened.  
  
That he feels responsible for letting his world meet mine in violence and death.  
  
He shouldn't; it wasn't him that gave me away, and it sure as hell wasn't him that dealt the final blow. But one of the things I love about him is his open, honest, caring nature, and unfortunately the downside of that is that he feels things in ways less blessed mortals can never experience - not even those like his psionic friend. In ways that hurt deeply, that confuse, that disillusion, adding a brick at a time to the walls they're forcing him to build around himself.  
  
I hate the fact that I've been responsible for some of that.  
  
But I'm still not sure why he's putting himself through this again.  
  
He's been here before. He stood alone then too, watching from a distance, not wanting to be part of the ritual farewell, to taint the pureness of their grief by reminding them what I was and how they'd lost me. It was probably all still too new then as well, too painful, but it had seemed that he'd said what he needed to, made his peace. And I didn't expect him to come back.  
  
I can see now, though, that this visit is more of a re-affirmation, a final chance to bring closure, to lay me properly to rest in his mind.  
  
He crouches down, stretching a hand out to trace the name engraved in the cold marble with his fingers, whispering it to the breeze that lifts the soft strands of too-long hair that curl restlessly over his forehead and the collar of his jacket.  
  
My name.  
  
"Amanda."  
  
He loses himself in the silence for a few minutes more. Then, with a sigh, he gently lays the single vibrant yellow sunflower he's been holding in his other hand onto the still fresh earth, before coming to his feet and turning resolutely away.  
  
She's waiting for him at the white painted gate, watching him sadly and a little anxiously as he walks slowly towards her, ready with a touch, a quiet word, a comforting smile. She slides her arm through his, hugging him close so she can lean her head against his shoulder in demonstration of her support, as they turn out into the deserted street. And with a last look back, he tilts his own head to rest briefly against hers, blonde meeting blonde.  
  
I'm glad he came.  
  
And I'm glad she came with him. I knew by the way he talked about her that she held a special place in his heart, different to what we shared but one that nothing and no one could replace. Seeing them together, then and now, only serves to confirm it. And the fact we're sisters under the skin makes me sure she'll help him through this. He's part of her pride, and we ferals always protect our own.  
  
It's peaceful here. There's little traffic on the road, few visitors to the small church. And now I know he's going to be all right, nothing to stop me resting.  
  
END 


End file.
